see what i have been
by KipperMay
Summary: Oz survives the crash of Oceanic flight 815. Lost/Buffy crossover, obviously.


Fate. The guy was writing it on bandages across his fingers.

Oz sat alone; hand over the slice in his forehead, cheeks still tear-stricken as he tried to make himself think coherently. The plane had…gone down…he still wasn't really sure how. He hadn't been able to find Devon—there was wreckage everywhere, screaming and sobs…small fires still burned in places, and the explosion…dull noise roared in his ears—or was it the waves?, making it difficult to make out any specific sounds or voices. His eyes blurred with fresh tears, and it took his mind a minute to catch up to why he was crying again. The plane had gone down. Crashed. And he couldn't find Devon. He swallowed back a sob and wiped the tears away with the back of his free hand. Blood ran down the wrist of his other hand, still clutched over the cut on his head. He wasn't really sure how long it had been since they'd crashed, but he was beginning to get dizzy. Or had he already been? He couldn't tell.

A face floated into view in front of him, dark eyes, short, close-cropped hair. "Let me see," the face commanded, and Oz obediently, numbly let his hand fall away from his forehead. The face was suddenly connected to a body, which had hands, and the hands carefully wiped the cut and wrapped some clean fabric around it. One hand on his shoulder. "…concussion…" the voice said. Oz's hearing faded into the roar for a moment, then back to the voice. "…should stay awake as long as you can…" Oz just nodded, and the man, apparently satisfied, turned and left. Oz looked again at the guy sitting a few yards away, working busily on writing the 'E' in FATE. He desperately wanted to sleep, but he forced himself up and walked unsteadily back toward the wreckage. He needed to find Devon, needed to make sure he was (dead?) okay. He stepped around a fire, and for a moment the world spun, so he stopped walking, let his eyes close. Soon it seemed to slow and he continued on. He reached the main wreckage and looked in, and was sick right there in the sand, falling to his knees and retching painfully. Bodies. But not Devon's. Not yet, his mind said, and his heart pounded as he began to search around the plane. Oh, God. There he was. Lying on his back in the sand, largely ignored by the survivors, who stepped over and around him like he was another piece of shrapnel. Oz fell next to the lifeless body, and was sick again, all over the powdery sand, then turned back to Devon, checking with shaking hands to make sure he was really gone. He was; the body (DEVON) was already getting cold. Tears burned in his eyes again, and he let them come, and they ran wildly down his cheeks, falling onto Devon's pale face. Oz reached out and closed his friend (_and lover, oh god, I loved him_, he thought)'s eyes, then fell back onto his heels, crying and disregarding everyone around him until that doctor guy came and took him by the shoulders and tried to lead him away. And then Oz fought, pushed and clawed and cried and fell down, laid on Devon's chest, holding the body tight, but he was weak, in shock, and the doctor ripped him away.

When he opened his eyes he was lying on his back in the warm sand, and for a moment he hoped wildly that it had just been a dream, a horrible nightmare, but then he tried to sit up and pain shot through his forehead and he saw the wreckage. He nearly vomited again, but this time he clenched his teeth and swallowed as best he could. Feet appeared in front of him, and he looked up wearily. A woman stood looking down at him; her hair was brown and curly, and tossed fitfully in the wind. Her eyes were piercing and blue. She knelt down. "Jack sent me to check on you. Are you all right?" All right? He suppressed a laugh, and, soon after, another mouthful of vomit, and nodded dully. She sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry about your friend," she said quietly.

"Boyfriend." He didn't know why he said it, but he did. It felt necessary, partially because he kind of knew it was what Devon would have said. Her frown deepened slightly.

"Oh. Sorry." Hand gone from his hair, and he regretted it a little, because his head felt cold now, where her hand had been. He sat up slowly, and she slipped an arm around his shoulders to help support him. He nearly shrugged her off, but he figured since he had sort of snapped at her before, he'd better give her this one. Anyway, he wasn't really sure if he could sit up by himself.

"No. It's cool." He looked at the sand, and concentrated on the steady throbbing of his head. She sighed. The waves roared dully in his ears. Or was it his head?…he still hadn't been able to figure out the difference. He never had much liked the beach, and now…he choked back hysterical laughter, threatening to rise in his throat. Then tears filled his eyes once more, and he angrily wiped them away. He was sick of being tired, sick of this grief, of being sick, of being here, of being helpless… "Who's Jack?" he asked, once he had managed to calm himself down a bit.

She looked at him, brow furrowed in confusion, and, after a moment, smiled slightly. "Oh, um, he's the doctor. He's kind of having everyone who's not so hurt check on anyone who is. Hurt." She shrugged. "I'm Kate," she added, holding out her hand.

He took it. His own hand was clammy, his grip weak, but she shook it firmly anyway as he managed to introduce himself. "Oz," he said quietly.

"Nice to meet you." Her smile became a shade more genuine, and Oz decided he didn't really mind her. She was much too cheery for his current mood, for their current situation, for that matter, but she was nice enough, and without her small, strong arm around his shoulders, he probably would have fallen back into the sand by now.

She was quiet; she seemed content just to sit with him. His eyelids were heavy, his head was throbbing, but the churning in his stomach was beginning to subside, breathing becoming a little easier. "I'm all right," he said finally, and cleared his throat. He sounded horrible, looked horrible, he knew, but at the moment he couldn't muster within him the energy to care. She got up suddenly. Oz hadn't even noticed until she was standing in front of him and he was sitting on his own. "Gonna go see if anyone else needs help. Are you going to be okay?"

He nodded, despite the pain exploding behind his eyes, and she was gone before he could reorient himself.  
Oz slept, for how long, he didn't know. It was evening when he woke, and the breeze from the ocean was cooling his burning face. He sat up wearily; his throat burned with thirst and his eyes stung, but the pain in his forehead had diminished noticeably. He risked standing up and immediately regretted it. He nearly fell again, but a hand caught his arm. Oz turned tiredly to look at the hand holding him, and saw those bandages—Fate. He whispered the word, questioningly, but as soon as the breath left his lips he doubted ever having said it. Fragments…his mind was working in fragments. "Fate?"

The guy connected to the hand holding his arm chuckled. "Yeah, fate. How else can you explain what happened?" British. He was British, and Oz tried to focus on him.

"Superiorly shitty luck?" he asked hoarsely. And the guy laughed. Oz's cheeks flushed, and he looked away, carefully pulling his arm out of the other guy's grip. "I'm all right. Thanks." He turned to walk away, despite the world spinning around him. He needed to know—about Devon—He felt the hand on his arm again, and instead of the guy being vaguely cute, he was quickly becoming vaguely annoying.

"Look, mate, you're in pretty bad shape. You should sit down, or rest, or something…" the guy said helplessly as Oz wrenched his arm more forcefully away.

"I said I'm all right," Oz snapped, his head beginning to throb again. "I've got to…I've got to find someone. I'll be fine."

The guy sighed. "I'll help you, all right? We can look for 'im, but we need to take it easy," he said soothingly, and took Oz's arm once more. "My name's Charlie and yours is Oz," he said, smiling slightly.

Oz looked at Charlie, dimly curious. "Yeah…how did you…" But he trailed off, already disinterested. Devon…was around here somewhere…his body, his…where was he? Tears burned in his eyes again, and he wiped them away, sniffing shakily as he looked around.

"Kate told me," Charlie was explaining. "Who're you looking for? Come on; let's head over to where the other survivors are. What does he look like?" he asked, looking around too, a slight frown creasing his features.

Oz shook his head. "Dead."

Charlie looked at him, confused. "Huh?"

"He's dead. I found his body earlier…I just want to know what they did with it."

The other man's expression was concerned, and slightly taken aback. "Mate, if he's dead…maybe you should just leave it…"

Oz shook his head, and regretted it right away, but the frustration that welled in his throat overpowered the pain, and he stumbled away from Charlie's warm grip, tears welling once more. "No…I can't…" He turned and made his way steadfastly across the sand. Charlie called out, began to follow, but Oz ignored him, instead concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, on staying on his feet in the soft, unsteady sand. He didn't get particularly far before Charlie caught up to him, and before Oz could really gather up enough strength to protest, the other man had his arm again.

"I'll help you find him, mate. All right? Just take it easy," Charlie was whispering, and Oz leaned against him, exhausted, unconsciously using the taller man for support. "We've just got to find Jack. Figure out where he put all the--" Charlie stopped suddenly, and looked carefully at Oz, who shook his head, smiling wryly.

"The bodies." He sighed. "It's okay. You can say it." He paused. "Thanks." He shifted his weight back onto his own feet, and led the way toward where Jack was sitting in the last light of the setting sun, drinking deeply from a bottle of water.

He glanced up as they approached, and managed a smile. "Hey, there, Oz, Charlie. How you guys feeling?"

Oz didn't answer. Didn't have to. Charlie muttered something about feeling better, thank you, but Jack's eyes were fixed on the shorter man. "The bodies," Oz said quietly. "Where are they?" Jack flinched, but, after gazing a minute with dark, solemn, eyes, he pointed to a bit of wreckage down the beach to his left.

"The ones that aren't still in the fuselodge we put in there," he said. "To keep them out of the sun." Oz nodded his thanks, and started toward the wreckage, Charlie hurrying behind.

Oz stepped out of the dying red sunlight, into the shade of the wreckage, and was hit instantly with the smell. Already they smell, he thought with a cringe, and covered his nose, moving steadfastly further into the shade, looking for Devon. He could hear Charlie gagging behind him, but he didn't turn. There he was. He pushed a couple other bodies off him, tears welling in his eyes when he saw how…peaceful he looked. Lucky him, Oz thought bitterly. He clenched his jaw and set to work going through his lover's pockets, pulling out his wallet, a key, a mostly empty pack of cigarettes, and then the necklace off his neck. It was a thin gold ring on a chain. Oz had given it to him. He touched Devon's hair one last time, and noticed absently that he was crying again. He didn't much care, for once. He got up and left the wreckage, clutching the few possessions he had gotten from the body, and walked past Charlie, who jogged to catch up with him, calling his name.

"Oz! Mate, did you…what did you…?"

Oz glanced at him, wiped at his eyes with the back of one hand. "I needed a couple of things. Thanks for coming with."

Charlie frowned, and looked warily at what Oz held, but nodded. "Sure. Course."

He wore the ring on the chain around his neck from then on. When they burned the bodies on a big bonfire on the beach a few nights later, he leaned against Charlie and cried for the last time, barely listening to the names that Claire read aloud from the stack of passports, tickets, and IDs she had collected. That night he lay, absently fingering the ring, looking up at the stars. Charlie's face floated into view above him. "Can I join you?" His face was tired, and when he sat down, Oz could clearly smell the heroin on him. "How're you holding up?" the taller man asked, and Oz shrugged.

"Not bad. You?"

Charlie chuckled. "I haven't lost anyone, mate. I'm doing just fine." But he averted his eyes when Oz looked at him, and his humorless smile quickly faded. Oz sat up, looked out across the waves, and they sat in silence for a while. He had just begun to drift back into his own thoughts again when something occurred to him; he realized it had been bothering him since he had first noticed Charlie, but the fragments of the question were just now beginning to form something coherent.

He turned. "Can I ask you something?" When Charlie looked at him, his smile was knowing, expectant. It made Oz feel almost like he didn't want to ask anymore. "Do I...you never lived in LA, did you?"

Charlie chuckled and looked away again, picking at a hangnail on his thumb. "Nah. Never lived in LA."

Oz studied him, frowning. "I'm almost positive--"

"--We've met or something?" Charlie cut him off. Oz nodded mutely, racking his memory. His head still ached, ears still roared. Charlie shook his head. "Don' think we've ever met. But I was wondering when you'd ask," he added, grinning crookedly.

Oz couldn't focus on the conversation. He couldn't get this song out of his head... "How about Chicago?" he was asking, but he didn't hear Charlie's answer over the lyrics in his head: _You all, everybody, you all, everybody..._

"...always wanted to visit, though," Charlie was replying, still grinning, when Oz finally realized.

"Driveshaft," he said.

Charlie looked surprised. "..Yeah."

Oz couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips. "Cool." He stood up, brushing the sand off his pants, and turned to walk away.

"I--hey, where're you goin?" Charlie called after him, his voice wary.

"Gonna get some cigarettes."

It took quite a bit of negotiation to get his cigarettes. He ended up giving away his warmest jacket (which barely fit Sawyer anyway) for a carton of them. Now he sat, shivering slightly, smoking, watching the sky slowly beginning to pale as night ended and day began; ring in the hand not holding the cigarette, as always. He felt more like himself than he had since the crash; for that matter, he felt more like himself since the weeks leading up to the crash. Australia hadn't been a good place for him. A hand on his shoulder pulled him from his attempt at not thinking, and he turned to see Charlie sit down next to him. "You look bloody knackered, mate."

Oz studied him. "I don't suppose that's a good thing…" he said finally, dryly, and took a drag of his cigarette. Charlie chuckled and shook his head.

"Nah. Means you look exhausted. Come on, come get some sleep."

When Oz crawled underneath the blanket next to Charlie, and their mouths, bodies met in the creeping gray beginnings of daylight, his headache finally subsided; even as he dozed off watching the sun come over the horizon, the world seemed much calmer and he realized with a slight smile that he could hear perfectly the waves crashing on the shore, and that his ears weren't ringing anymore.

He hadn't noticed them stop.

The End.


End file.
